


Self

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Vignette, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 00:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1283878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock comes to himself to unwind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Self

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Drabble for “Spock/Spock Prime” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s what he, Spock, the younger _you_ , needs, and you know it.

Your quarters are honourary. Small, but it’s a science vessel, and you don’t expect any more—you’re Vulcan and they’re practical. You pass the Enterprise, and this is what you get, a short, enlightening visit, like so many others before it. He—you—sits in your lap and ride your cock, strong arms tight around your neck and lithe, young body flattened against yours. His chest is still taut, thin and pretty through a familiar, old blue uniform, grinding into all your dark robes. His head hangs over your shoulder, not a single grey hair in sight. You miss the glossy black strands some days, and you thread your aged fingers through them, and his breath catches. Your other arm is gentle on his lower back, soothing in soft circles. He rocks into you, not fucking nearly so hard as you used to. 

But then, no, _you_ weren’t rough—not unless it was _pon farr_ , anyway. _He_ was. Not this young, inexperienced Spock, but a handsome blond man you’ve long since left behind and will _never_ let go of. The different man in your arms doesn’t know the time he’s wasting. 

Spock trembles as he tries to straighten, delicate fingers slipping to squeeze your shoulders. You’re both immaculately dressed, your robes hiked up and pants pulled down and him much the same, in the same uniform he wore on shift this morning. Your hands fall to his hips as he sets into a different motion, full circles that make his head hang and his too-familiar bow lips part. His eyes are closed, sweat beaded on his face. He _needs_ this, and you understand. You remember what it was like. Trying to be so _good_ for a father that never once said it was enough. But you had your mother, and you had your planet. This poor man has nothing, not even the solace you found so early on. He’ll learn soon enough—true _t’hy’la_ are inevitable. Still, it’s hard to be strong. To never stress emotion. You know better than anyone how much the fear and rage and sadness broils in this poor man’s chest—it needs to come out somehow. You let him take it out in forbidden sex; it’s easier than anything else. 

He crumbles too fast. You know who he’s thinking of, but you don’t say it, don’t want to humiliate him. It’s easier, for now, for him to deny it, to come to you instead, you who will never judge him, who will always understand. You might be the only person he trusts to break down in front of. He loses all control when he reaches orgasm, the emotions surging onto his face, arched eyebrows knitting together and mouth falling soundlessly wide, nose scrunched and body tense. He clings to your withered shoulders too tightly—he’s _so tight_ —and you help him, you milk his cock until he spills in your hand. You sit back and let him keep rocking until you’re done, and even then he still shivers and rolls his hips, like he can’t bear the thought of it being _over_ , of him having to leave. 

You wipe your hand off on the towel you’ve set aside, and you clutch his hips to still him. He buries his face in your shoulder again, and you pet his hair and his back and tell him, in thick, flowing Vulcan, “Things will be better.” He shakes his head. The folly of youth: he doesn’t believe you.

You could say that Vulcans don’t lie, but you both know better than that. 

For now, you lean your lined face against his smooth cheek, and you hold him gently while he unwinds. You let him climb off of you at his own pace, and you let him lie across your couch, curl up and lean his head in your lap, and you tuck yourself back in and straighten your robs and let him stay against your thigh. You stroke his still-pretty hair and whisper, “Things will be better.”

Because someday, they will be.


End file.
